


A Perfect Day

by CrystalWaters72



Category: All the Bright Places - Jennifer Niven, Gilmore Girls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Romance, because trigger warnings, i can't say anything else though cuz spoilers, i'll add the major spoiler in the notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 03:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19287064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystalWaters72/pseuds/CrystalWaters72
Summary: Jess Mariano is fascinated by death, and he constantly thinks of ways he might kill himself. But each time, something good, no matter how small, stops him.Rory Gilmore lives for the future, counting the days until graduation, when she can escape her Indiana town and her aching grief in the wake of her best friend's recent death.When Jess and Rory meet on the ledge of the bell tower at school, it’s unclear who saves whom. And when they pair up on a project to discover the “natural wonders” of their state, both Jess and Rory make more important discoveries: It’s only with Rory that Jess can be himself—a weird, funny, live-out-loud guy who’s not such a freak after all. And it’s only with Jess that Rory can forget to count away the days and start living them. But as Rory's world grows, Jess's begins to shrink.





	A Perfect Day

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, just in case there's any confusion, I'm writing this as if Gilmore Girls characters are in the book All the Bright Places. Just wanted to make that clear
> 
> (I'm not proofreading this in depth and swears have asterisks just to warn you)
> 
> Also I'm looking at the book as I write this because I want it to line up. There's some direct quotes in here, and if you recognize them then you know that I by no means claim ownership to the quotes. Along with the summary, because I just changed the names in that because I really liked how Jennifer wrote the summary (and the whole book but ya know)
> 
> And here are the following trigger warnings for those of you who feel you need them (not in the tags because I'm avoiding spoilers for those who haven't read the book):
> 
> Suicide mentions; Suicide attempts; Suicide in general really; Self-harm, eating disorders, bipolar disorder, BPD, along with others mentioned in a specific chapter; Depression; Car accidents; Death

_Is today a good day to die?_

Despite what anyone may think, I tend to ask myself this a lot. In the morning when I wake up to a room that's too fake. During school when I'm trying to keep my head up as Mrs. Anders rambles on about her flat and two-dimensional interpretations of my favourite books. In the evening when I dig through the cabinets for some tasteless soup that hasn't expired yet. At night when I'm staring at the ceiling just waiting for my brain to turn off, but it doesn't because there's too much to do and too much to think about.

_Is today the day?_

_And if not today—when?_

I'm currently asking myself this as I literally stand on the edge of death. I mean, seriously. There's nothing beneath my toes and all my weight is on the ledge of the school bell tower. The last time I looked down, I lost my balance as the entire world tilted and spun, taking me along for the ride. I'm tempted to look down again.

If one was to look at my life, it would be very understandable that I'm on this ledge. I mean, sh*tty life, even sh*ttier mom. My dad ran out on us when I was a baby, whereabouts unknown. The only one who seemingly cares about me is my uncle, but in reality he doesn't give a sh*t about what happens to me either. Nobody does.

So, really, it's understandable. But I'm not up here because of any of that.

No, I'm not about to go into this story about how my soulmate killed themselves and now I feel it's my duty or purpose or whatever that I do the same. But how great of a story would that be in the newspaper?

The truth is that this happens quite a bit. And by  _this_  I mean the waking up and feeling empty. Waking up and feeling like I've just had this long, dark sleep with no dreams and I didn't exist. And this isn't the normal type of sleep. It's not tucking yourself into bed, drifting off into the next day. It's going dark and shutting down completely. I call it the Asleep. It seems more final that way. Because it feels final, too.

But this time was different. I mean, yes, I felt deader than usual, but that's not a big deal; that sometimes happens. What was different was that I was out for weeks. I was out for the  _holidays_. The Asleep came on about a week before Thanksgiving, and then the next thing I knew Christmas was almost over.

I don't remember anything that happened in that span of time. Honestly, the only reason I knew it even happened was that I woke up in my uncle's apartment and it was snowing. I don't even remember the last time it snowed in November.

I also don't remember how I got up here, but that's not the point. I close my eyes and tilt my head up. Somehow this produces the same effect as when I look down. Breathing in, I find that I feel part of the sky. The sky is part of me.

Maybe this time I'll do it. I can just step off. It'll be easy. Step off the six-story ledge and the sky can carry me. Down or up and away, it doesn't matter much, does it? I won't be here in this small Indiana town anymore.

All my instincts are screaming at me to lean forward, but I make myself knock my legs against the low railing. It's still there.

I stretch my arms out like I'm conducting a sermon in front of this entire dull, dull, very small town. "Ladies and gentlemen," I shout, "I would like to welcome you to my death!" It might be expected of me to say 'life' since I pretty much just woke up, but that's the thing. I'm awake, and I think about dying.

I'm shouting in an old-school-preacher way, my words big and loud and twitching at the ends, my head and whole body jerking around. This makes me lose balance, and I move my arms around trying to regain it. I'm actually kinda glad nobody's looking up at me. It's hard to look fearless when you're flapping your arms and clutching the railing like a chicken.

"I, Jess Mariano, being of unsound mind, hereby bequeath all my earthly possessions to Chris Afton, Matthew Fairhaven, and my uncle. Everyone else can just go f*ck themselves." When I was younger – say, seven or eight – my mother tried teaching me to never say that word when she caught me using the F-bomb on her boyfriend. I told her to f*ck off and it was never brought up again.

The first bell had already rung, but there's still some students milling around outside. It's the first week of the second semester, and they're already acting like they're graduated and outta here. Some guy looks up as if he heard me, but the others don't, either because they haven't spotted me or because they know I'm up here and  _Oh well, it's just Jessie Freak-iano._

He then turns his head away and points up. At first I think he's pointing at me, but then I see her, the girl. She's standing on the ledge a few feet away, rusty brown hair waving in the breeze, her skirt blowing up like a parachute. It's January in Indiana, but she's shoeless in tights, a pair of dark boots in her hand, and she's either staring at her feet or at the ground – it's hard to tell. She seemed frozen.

In my calmest voice, the regular, non-preacher way, I say, "The worst thing you can do is look down. Trust me, I would know." I don't mention the fact that I love the thrill looking down gives me.

She ever-so-slowly turns her head up at me, and I think I know this girl, or at least I've seen her in the hallways. Really, I can't resist: "So, you come here often? 'Cause this is kinda my spot, and I don't think I've ever seen you up here before now."

She doesn't react at all, only gazes at me behind these glasses that don't match her fact at all. She tries to take a step back and her legs bump against the railing. She looks like she's about to lose her balance, and before either of us can panic, I say, "Not sure what exactly brings you up here, but to me he whole town seems prettier and everything seems nicer. Some of the people even look kind. Except for Tristan Dugray and Paris Geller and that whole group you hang out with."

Her name is Rory Something. She's academic popular – one of those people who might actually be likely to be found on a bell tower ledge six stories off the ground, but it's really surprising anyway. Behind the glasses she's pretty, almost like a drawing. Bright eyes, sweet face with a slightly angled jaw, a mouth that wants to curve into a perfect little smile. She's a girl that dates guys like Logan Huntzberger, rich baseball star, and sits with Paris Geller and other queens at lunch.

"But let's face it, neither of us came up for the view. You're Rory, right?"

I take her single blink as a yes.

"Jess Mariano. I think we had pre-cal last year."

She blinks again.

"I personally hate math, but that's not why I'm up here. No offense if that's why you are, though. You're probably better at math than I am, because pretty much everyone is better at math than I am. But that's okay, I'm totally fine with it. You see, I excel at other, more important things – guitar, sex, and consistently disappointing my mother, to name a few. By the way, it's apparently true that you won't use it in the real world. Math, I mean."

I keep talking to distract her, but I can tell I'm running out of steam. For one thing, I need to take a piss, so now my words aren't the only things that are twitching.  _(Note to self: Always take a leak before attempting to take own life.)_ And, two, it's starting to rain, which will probably turn into sleet before it hits the ground in this weather.

"It's starting to rain," I say, as if she doesn't know this. "I guess that the rain will wash away all the gross blood and stuff, leaving us a nicer mess to clean up. But it's the mess that's got me thinking. Now, I'm not a vain person, but I am human, and I'd rather not look like I've been run through a wood chipper at my funeral."

She's shaking or shivering, I can't tell which, and I can see her grip loosen on the railing because of it. I slowly inch my way towards her, hoping that I don't fall off before I get to her, because I really don't want to be an a**hole in front of her. "I've said multiple times that I want cremation, but my mom doesn't believe in it." And my uncle always tries to avoid needless arguments with her, and, also,  _You're way too young to be thinking about that kind of thing, you know that my dad lived a long life, we don't have to talk about that now, Jess, don't upset your mom._

"So it's an open coffin for me, which definitely won't be pretty if I jump. Besides, I like my face intact. Two eyes, one nose, one mouth, full set of teeth. Which is probably one of my better features, if I'm being honest." I force a smile to show her what I mean. Everything is where it should be. Everything on the outside, at least.

She doesn't say anything, so I keep inching and talking. "Sometimes I think about it, and that just makes me feel bad for the undertaker. What a sh*tty job that must be normally, and then you have an a**hole like me to deal with."

From somewhere on the ground, someone yells, "Rory? Is that Rory up there?"

"Oh God," she whispers, so quiet I can barely hear it. "OhGodohGodohGod." The wind is blowing her clothes and hair, and it looks like she's the one that's part of the sky and that she'll fly away instead.

There's buzzing going around down there, so I shout, "Don't try to save me! You'll only kill yourself!" Then, very low so that only she can hear, I say, "Here's what I think we should do." I'm about a foot or two away from her now. "Throw your shoes back and towards the bell. Then you need to hold the rail, just grab onto it, and then lean against it once you got it and then lift your right foot up and over. Got it?"

"Okay." She nods and tilts off the ledge, grabbing tighter to the railing.

"Don't nod," I say, completely serious now and maybe a little panicked myself.

"Okay."

"And whatever you do, don't go the wrong way and step forward instead of back. I'll count you off. On three. Okay?"

"Okay." She tosses her boots towards the bell, and I hear them land with a  _thud, thud._

"One, two, three."

She grips the stone and props herself up on it, lifting her leg up and over so now she's sitting on the railing. I can tell that she froze again as she stares at the ground, so I say, "Good. Fantastic. Just stop looking down."

She snaps her gaze back at me and then reaches for the floor of the bell tower with her right foot. Then I say, "Okay, now get that left foot over however you can. Doesn't matter how, just don't let go of the wall." By now she's shaking so hard that it's making my teeth hurt just by thinking about how hers must feel, but I watch as her left foot joins her right, and now she's safe.

And now it's just me out here. I look down at the ground one last time, past my feet – today I'm wearing dark sneakers with bright, neon laces – past the windows of the fourth floor, the third, the second, past Paris Geller, who is terrorizing a freshman, bag above her head, trying to tell someone off and protect herself from the rain at the same time.

I look past all of this and stare at the ground, which is now slick and damp, and, through the tilting and whirling of the world I feel, I imagine myself lying there.

_I could just step right off. It would be over in seconds. No more Jessie Freak-iano. No more hurt. No more anything._

I try to get past the unexpected interruption of saving someone's life and return to the business I came up here for in the first place. For a moment I can feel it: my mind going quiet and the peace that comes with it, like I'm already dead. I'm weightless. I'm free. Nothing and no one to fear, not even myself.

Then a voice behind me says, "You need to hold the rail and then lean against it once you got it and then life your right foot up and over."

And just like that, the moment passes. It might've already been gone, but I was too caught up in the after effects of the spinning world. And now it seems like a stupid idea, except for picturing the look on Paris's face as I go flying past her. I laugh at the thought, so hard that I almost fall off, and that scares me – like, really scares me – and I catch myself as Rory catches me as Paris looks up. "Weirdo!" someone shouts. Paris's group snickers. She cups her loud mouth and aims it skyward at us. "You okay, Ror?"

Rory leans over the rail, still gripping my legs. "I'm okay."

The door at the top of the tower stairs opens and my best friend, Chris Afton, appears. Chris is black. I can tell that he wishes he was black-black, but he's more like CW black. He also gets laid more than anyone else I know.

He says, "They're serving pizza today," as if I wasn't standing on a ledge six stories above the ground, my arms outstretched, a girl wrapping her arms around my knees.

"Why don't you just go ahead and get it over with, freak?" Tristan Dugray, better known as Dumba**, yells from below. There's more laughter.

I have the nearly uncontrollable urge to yell back,  _Because I've got a date with your mother later_ , but, let's face it, it's lame. And it would most likely end with him coming up here and throwing me off this ledge himself, which kinda defeats the point of just doing it myself.

Instead I shout, "Thanks for saving me, Rory! I don't know what I would've done if you were here. I suppose I'd be dead right now, I guess."

The last face I see from below is my school counselor, Mr. Embry. He glares up at me, and I think,  _Welp, that's great. Just fan-f*cking-tastic._

I let Rory help me over the railing and to safety on the concrete, and there's a round of applause from down below. Not for me, but for Rory, the hero. From up close like this, I can see her skin is smooth and clear, and her eyes are a bright blue that remind me of a swimming pool. It's the eyes that get me. They're large and surveying, like she sees everything. As warm and bright as they are, they are busy, no-bullsh*t eyes, the kind that can see right through you, which I can tell from even behind the glasses. She's pretty, and has curvy hips, which I like on a girl, since so many high school girls are built like boys.

"I was just sitting there," she says. "I didn't come up here to–"

"Let me ask you something. Do you think there's such a thing as a perfect day?"

"What?"

"A perfect day, start to finish. A day where nothing terrible or sad or ordinary happens. Do you think that's possible?"

"I don't know."

"Have you ever had one?"

"No."

"Same here, but I'm looking for it."

She whispers, "Thank you, Jess Mariano," and she reaches up to kiss me on the cheek. Since her hair is right in my face, it very noticeably smells like flowers. She says into my ear, "If you ever tell anyone about this, I'll throw you off this ledge myself." She picks up her boots and hurries out of the rain, back through the door and down the stairs to one of the too-bright and too-crowded school hallways.

Chris watches her go and then turns to me. "Dude. Why do you do that?"

"We all have to die someday, and I just wanna be prepared." It's not the real reason, but it's good enough for him. The reasons actually change daily, most of the many, anyway. Like the drunk driver a couple of months ago that killed two teenagers (which I found out recently, since it was just a few days before Thanksgiving), or the girl two years behind me who died of cancer, or the guy I saw at the mall kicking his dog, or my mother.

Chris may think it, but at least he doesn't say "Weirdo," which is why he's my best friend. Other than this, we don't have much in common.

-=+=-

Technically – or not technically, depending on how you look at it – I'm on probation this year. This is due to a small matter involving a desk and a chalkboard. (If you're wondering, replacing a chalkboard is a lot more expensive than you might think.) It's also due to a guitar-smashing incident during assembly, illegal use of fireworks, and definitely a fight or two (or three or ten). As a result, I was basically forced into the following agreement: weekly counseling, which sucks because I don't like talking; maintaining a high B average, which I could probably do in my sleep; and participation in at least one extracurricular activity. I chose art club because I'm one of the few guys with twenty semihot art girls, which I thought was pretty good odds for me. And you don't even have to f*cking to anything in there, which I find pretty cool. I also have to behave myself, play well with others, refrain from throwing any more desks, as well as staying away from any 'violent altercations'. And I must always, always, whatever else I do, hold my tongue, because apparently a smart mouth is what starts trouble. If I screw anything else up from here on out, it's expulsion for me.

Rather than being a good boy and check in with the secretary, I just stride into Mr. Embry's office, because I know for a fact that he doesn't meet with anyone before me. If I know Embryo – as I like to call him – like I know Embryo, then he'll want to yell at me and find out just what exactly I was doing in the bell tower. I'm late anyway, so I figure I'd just might as well get it over with.

Embryo is a short, thick man built like a bull, and he looks incredibly annoyed that I just barged in like this. I take great pride in that. He hunches over his desk and looks at me like I'm some suspect in a cop show. "What the h*ll were you doing in the bell tower?"

I like how Embryo is not only predictable, but he cuts to the point quick. I've known him since sophomore year.

"The view is great from up there."

"Were you planning on jumping off?"

"Why, it's pizza day! Why would I jump on pizza day? It  _is_ one of the better days of the week, after all." I should mention that I'm a brilliant deflector, and I tend to very often use sarcasm in almost every situation. So brilliant that I could get a doctorate in these two topics, but I wouldn't bother because I hate school and I've already mastered the art, so why bother?

I'm just waiting for him to mention Rory, but he just says, "I need to know if you're planning on harming yourself. I'm serious. If Principal Merton hears about this, you're gone before you can say 'suspended,' or worse. Not to mention that if you go up there while I'm not paying attention, I'm looking at a lawsuit, and believe me when I say I don't have the money to be sued. This holds true whether you jump off the bell tower or the Hickory Ridge Lookout Tower, whether you're on school property or not."

I stroke my chin like I'm in deep thought. "Hickory Ridge. Now there's an idea."

His only reaction is to squint at me. Like most people in the Midwest, Embryo doesn't believe in humour, especially if it involves sensitive subjects. "Not funny, Mr. Mariano. This is not a joking matter."

"Of course not. My apologies, sir."

"The thing suicides don't focus on is their wake. Not just your parents and siblings, but your friends, your girlfriends, your classmates, your teachers." I love how he thinks I have so many people depending on me, including not one but multiple girlfriends.

"I was just messing around. I admit that it's probably not the best way to spend first period."

He picks up a file and slaps it down in front of him. I wait as he flips through and reads it, and then he looks up at me again. He's probably counting the days until summer.

He stands, still acting like this is a cop show, and walks around his desk until he's looming over me. He leans against it and crosses his arms and I look past him, searching for the two-way mirror.

"Do I need to call your mother?"

"No, and again no." And again:  _no no no_. "Look, it was a stupid thing to do. I just wanted to find out what it felt like to stand up there and look down. I would never jump off the bell tower."

"If it happens again, if you so much as even  _think_ about it, I'm calling her. And you're doing a drug test."

"I very much appreciate your concern, sir." I try to ditch the sarcasm and sound sincere. The last thing I need is a bigger spotlight on me than I already have following me around the halls here at school. Besides, I actually like Embryo. "And you don't have to waste your time on the drug test. Really. Unless cigarettes count. Do they count? I don't think they would, honestly, but you never know, do you? Besides, drugs and me don't mix. They really don't." Not that I've tried; I would never try them after seeing first hand what they can do. I fold my hands like a good boy. "As for the whole bell tower thing, I can promise that it won't happen again, even though it's not at all what you think it was."

"That's right – it won't. I want you to come here twice a week instead of once, Mondays and Fridays, so we can talk and I can see how you're doing."

"I would be happy to, sir – I mean it, 'cause I really, really enjoy these conversations of ours – but I'm good."

"It's nonnegotiable. Now, let's talk about the end of last semester. You missed four weeks of school. Your father said you were sick with the flu."

He's actually talking about my uncle, Luke, but he doesn't know that. He was the one who called the phone when I was out, because Liz barely even notices when I'm not home.

"If that's what he says, who are we to argue?"

The thing is, I was sick, but not in the way that's as easy to explain as the flu is. In my experience, people are a lot more sympathetic when you're the type of sick where people can  _see_ you hurting, and for the millionth time I wish I had the measles or smallpox or some other easily understood disease that I can explain to make it easier on me and others. Anything would be better than the truth:  _I shut down again. I went blank. One minute I was spinning, and the next I was dragging myself 'round and 'round in a circle like an old, arthritic dog who's trying to lie down. And then I just turned off and went to sleep, but not the sleep you do every night. A long, dark sleep where you don't dream at all._

Embryo once again narrows his eyes and squints at me hard, like he's trying to get me to sweat. Joke's on him – I don't get intimidated easily. "And can we expect you to show up and stay out of trouble this semester?"

"Absolutely on the last part. I'll try my best on the first."

He fixes me with a stern look before continuing, "And keep up with your classwork?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll arrange the drug test with the nurse." He points at me with a steady finger. "Probation means 'period of testing somebody's suitability; period when student must improve.' Look it up if you don't believe me, and for Christ's sake, stay alive."

I don't say that I want to stay alive. The reason I don't is because, given that folder in front of him, he'd never believe it. And here's another thing he'd never believe – I'm fighting to stay in this sh*tty, messed-up world. Standing on the ledge of that bell tower isn't about dying. It's about having control. It's about never going to sleep again.

Embryo stalks around his desk and gathers a stack of "Teens in Trouble" pamphlets. He then tells me that I'm not alone and I can always talk to him, his door is always open, he's here, and he'll see me on Monday. I want to tell him no offense, but that's not much of a comfort. Instead, I thank him because of the dark circles under his eyes and the smoker lines etched around his mouth. He'll probably light up a cigarette as soon as I'm out the door. I silently take a heaping pile of pamphlets and leave him to it. He never once mentioned Rory, and I'm relieved.


End file.
